The BLTS Archive - Rose Amid Dandelions
by Apocalypse (beth.tereno@gmail.com)

---

Disclaimer: These characters belong not to me, though it grieves my
heart greatly, but to Bermaga. Why? Because there is no justice.

Warnings: Spoilers all over the place, up to "The Expanse (Pt I)" ...

Author's Note: Dude. My first R/S fic. Weird.

---
Contemplation
---

She sits at her post, competent and serene: a far cry from the worried
child she was when her feet first touched metal decks. He thought she
was a fish out of water or, in his more flattering moments, a rose
among dandelions. But now he knows better.

He didn't think much of her at first. She was just somebody, just
another silly girl who didn't know what she wanted. A silly,
frightened girl, young and delicate and thoroughly out of her element,
who screamed and cowered in the face of the kind of danger that would
be bread and meat to them out here. On a ship with no small measure of
competent, beautiful women at the top of their fields, she was just
another face, just another expert, less confident than most.

He'd been as friendly as he knew how to be, which admittedly wasn't
saying much. He'd never got on well with people. He just hadn't got
the knack. She'd been courteous to him, friendly in an almost detached
way, as though she hadn't known what to make of him, either.

And then, the first away mission they'd shared. Not alone, of course;
the captain had been just as eager for action as the rest of them, but
in more of a position to allow himself the indulgence. He reserved
judgment on that, on the captain's methods. He still does, or at
least, keeps his complaints private for the most part. A Reed would do
things differently, not like these eager-eyed Americans with their
penchant for interference . . .  but a Reed is not in command, and
Malcolm can't help but wonder if it's better this way.

Dead bodies, hanging from the ceiling. It wasn't par for the course,
but you didn't sign on for a dangerous adventure into outer space
expecting cake and sherry from every quivering xenophobic you happened
to pass.

The schoolteacher couldn't handle it. It was too much for her delicate
sensibilities, he remembered saying at the time, relating the story to
Mayweather in the mess-hall. He'd wondered then if she would make it
out here. If she would go home.

And then he'd spoken to her about it, offered his commiserations as it
were. The first rush of shock, of familiarity, of wondering if there
wasn't more here than met the eye: she verbally lashed herself, her
words hot with self-loathing and disappointment ... in a way that was
so familiar, laced so intricately with a determination to fix things
for the better, that he thought he might almost have been talking with
a younger, female version of himself.

"You didn't scream," she said as the conversation wound to a close.
"Next time, neither will I."

"Well," he'd answered, in his most awkward
have-a-look-at-the-bright-side-will-you way, "hopefully we won't be
running into any more aliens that want to turn our bodily fluids into
sex drugs anytime soon."

Her little smile in the midst of her angry self-berating . . .
sardonic but amused, an expression that had struck him as somehow
mature, older than someone so obviously innocent ought to have been
able to wear on her face. "Thanks, Lieutenant," she'd said. The tone
had been dry: you're a lot of help. But amused.

He likes it when she thinks he's funny.

He wonders why he chooses this moment to linger on, now as he watches
her almost two full years later as she fiddles with the controls on
her communications board.

Perhaps it's the contrast . . .

That timid schoolteacher seems so far in the past to him now, he
almost wonders if they're the same person. The captain, his fingers
drumming on the side of his command chair, turns to ask her a question
that seems rife with impatience; she answers collectedly, coolly, as
though her superior officer's inability to deal with his own
impatience is not at all her problem.

The captain is out of his chair, impatient, agitated; it's been a
regular mood for him for awhile, since . . .  the attack on Earth. The
captain is not hard to read: He wonders what's coming, why they seem
trapped in this calm before the storm, where the aliens are that
they've been warned about.

He asks his bridge crew, over and over, if their monitors are picking
up anything unusual, anything new to report. The answers are
invariably in the negative.

He leaves the bridge, then, with T'pol in command: a silent presence,
the Vulcan ice goddess with her odd way of sprawling in the command
chair. Malcolm watches her for a moment, remembering things that
disturb him endlessly.

A breathy, hungry, desperate voice, ringing in his ears: "I've seen
the way you look at me . . . "

The endlessly unattainable had been in his grasp . . .  and he'd found
that somehow, strangely, he didn't want it anymore. Despite the
undeniable hunger of his body to do what she asked of him, to take
what she was suddenly, inexplicably giving, it was so easy to refuse,
to do his duty and leave the honour of the subcommander intact.

Can he attribute that . . .  to Hoshi?

No . . .  not just to Hoshi.

The incident with the cogenitor creeps up on his memory as well: a
fellow armoury officer, a like mind in many ways, although certainly
much more sure of herself . . .  a woman who knew what she wanted and
was more than capable of getting it, and himself a willing participant
in the process.

That wasn't the part that had touched him, however his physicality had
been involved in it. The sex was as it always was: strictly physical,
a release of the body, leaving him emotionally unsatisfied, as it
always did . . .  although physically he'd had something to smirk
about for some days at least.

Not that there'd been much smirking.

He'd felt too guilty for that.

Commander Tucker is the closest friend Malcolm thinks he has ever had.
Trip can open him up, with the easy grace of his conversation, his
casual charm; Trip can keep his secrets with the integrity of a
gentleman of the old South. They can tease and know that neither will
be hurt. They can fight, and say truly horrible things to each other,
and still know that they are friends. This is the kind of true
friendship that Malcolm has never before known, and treasures to his
heart more deeply than almost anything else that he has found aboard
the Enterprise.

And when this friend, this true friend, this best friend above all
best friends, with whom he shares everything . . .  needed him, could
have used his help, his advice, something from him, he'd been off
chasing a bit of tail in the armoury.

Malcolm is still disgusted with himself.

And then . . .  the attack on Earth.

Malcolm can't help wondering if he damaged his friendship with Trip
irreparably in the incident with "Charles" the cogenitor. Its suicide
had hurt his friend deeply, changed his outlook on the universe in
general and on his captain in particular; Malcolm wonders, if he had
been more available for his friend at that first time of need, whether
or not Trip would have been more ready to accept his empathy when the
Xindi took out millions of human lives and stole the engineer's little
sister away.

Now there is angry, vengeful, bitter Trip: a Trip Tucker Malcolm had
never imagined could exist in his easygoing, cheerful, sometimes
obnoxious best friend.

Malcolm is still his best friend; a Reed does not desert a sinking
ship. Loyalty is everything, personal or professional.

The attack has changed so many people aboard the Enterprise. But not
Malcolm. It's too strange, too abstract for Malcolm to understand. No
one he knows has been taken. And the numbers . . .  millions of
people, killed . . .  it's just too much for him to understand.
Really, he doesn't need to. He's a soldier, fighting for a cause; the
cause is freedom, the cause is justice, the cause is vengeance. He
doesn't feel these things in the deeply personal way some of the
others do. But he sees the pain in his best friend's face, watches his
easygoing captain transformed into this agitated, angry,
vengeance-driven person that he barely recognizes. And he's seen his
fish out of water, his rose among dandelions, become a tigris in
defense of the ship and its captain.

"Anyone who has a problem with Captain Archer and the Enterprise," she
has said on more than one occasion, in a voice as hard as diamond,
"will have to come through me."

Malcolm doubts that anyone will take her up on it.

He'd gone with Trip to visit the devastated remains of his Florida
hometown. It hadn't been a good idea; it would bring home the images
too hard, leave them seared into his friend's brain. Malcolm wonders
what it's like – does Trip imagine her there, slipping into the
chasm's mouth? Or touched by the same fires that hewed holes in the
skin of the planet, perhaps . . .  maybe he sees his sister Elizabeth
with her flesh seared away, her bones melting in the intense heat of
the blast. Maybe he sees his sister further away from the impact of
the blast, fleeing for her life, knowing that death is coming but
finding it inevitable . . .  or trying vainly to save another's life,
sacrificing herself in some way in the face of impending doom so that
another could escape. Malcolm drops the chain of morbid imagination
that he's been following; he has no way of guessing what's going on in
Trip's head or what the deaths of those millions who were killed in
the Xindi attack might have looked like.

Trip has not spoken much of his sister, neither before nor after her
death. Malcolm has no idea what his friend sees in his mind's eye when
he thinks of her.

On the return trip, Malcolm barely recognized his friend. The spine
straight as though reinforced with steel, the eyes set at some distant
point on the horizon – never looking at Malcolm, never looking back –
the nostrils flared and quivering with suppressed anger and grief, his
face frozen into a mosaic of vengeance.

Malcolm feels strangely adrift amidst these new crewmates. Only Travis
Mayweather seems to understand.

"It's weird, isn't it?" he said softly to Malcolm over a half-hearted
lunch the day before the Enterprise left dock. "It's just . . .
weird."

Why Travis? Malcolm didn't know. Travis had lost family before, family
he cared about deeply, so he could vaguely understand the losses of
his crewmates, but he had no real identification with Earth as a
planet. He hadn't been born there, he'd visited dozens of other worlds
and spent almost as much time on them; he'd trained there for a brief
stint before being posted to the NX-01, but that was all.

Malcolm wishes he knows the words to ask Travis what it feels like,
being on the ship now. The rest of the crew have all suffered at the
hands of the Xindi; their home has been violated. But not his home.

The rest of the crew . . .  with a few exceptions.

Malcolm's glance slides away from his tactical board to touch on the
woman in the command chair again. She is cool, serene, unconcerned,
the essence of patience: a rock of Vulcan calm in a sea of humanity.
Yes, she is beautiful . . .  but he's come to learn that her beauty is
like that of a finely constructed weapon, one that it is impossible to
wield; it's the sort of beauty best admired . . .  from a distance,
not up close.

What are her motives? Why would she disobey direct orders from the
Vulcan High Command to stay on board the ship?

Ship's gossip, according to Travis – Malcolm's source for all such
nonsense whenever he happens to need it – is that Captain Archer has
penetrated that faηade of ice and logic and found a warm, yielding,
sex-hungry babe beneath it. Travis's turn of phrase was remarkably
adept; he found words to express both the rumour and his own somewhat
contemptuous opinion of it at the same time.

Malcolm is inclined to agree with Travis. Between the captain and the
science officer, he sees signs of nothing more intimate than a healthy
respect between commanding officer and immediate inferior; a growing
professional relationship with perhaps tinges of personal admiration
but nothing even approaching a sexual or romantic level.

Malcolm also knows that he's hardly the person to go to for
observations of that sort; but he feels adept enough to consider such
an idea poppycock, at the very least.

Defying the orders of her home planet to remain aboard with her human
crewmates . . .  well, T'pol has certainly changed since the beginning
as well.

Her contempt for humanity, the way she seemed to be barely containing
her irritation with her assignment, replaced by the serene, patient
logic . . .  a woman of class and integrity who deals remarkably well
with being trapped in a foreign environment, foreign culture, with the
not unprejudiced eyes of a much younger species constantly on her (and
often, on her posterior).

At first, T'pol was just . . .  a sexy woman to fantasize about. Now
she is a superior officer, a formidable creature in her own right, a
person to be wondered about and probably never fathomed . . .  with
her own honour, which he has learned over the past two years of
service is something to respect.

---
Colleagues
---

"Asteroid field ahead, Subcommander," Travis remarks mildly, glancing
at his scanner.

"Can you maneuver to avoid while maintaining approximate course
heading?" T'pol inquires.

"It'll add a few hours to our ETA, sir."

"Very well," T'pol remarks, leaving the command chair. "You have the
bridge, Lieutenant Reed; I will consult with the captain."

Malcolm acknowledges the science officer's command and takes the
command chair with barely a second thought. The crew functions as a
well-oiled machine. He is proud to be among their number.

His parents would not be so proud.

The thought comes unexpectedly. His father's face is a black rush of
emotion that leaves his knuckles white as he grips the arm of the
command chair. A Reed serves where a Reed is needed. His own words,
angry and bitter and thrown back in his face.

"No, son. A Reed should serve where Reeds have always served. We are
the sons of the sea." His father's voice; cold, scathing, but
beginning to heat, beginning to rise in volume as the man's face
changed colour, as his temper rose.

What is this if not a new sea? A sea without water? A new horizon to
explore?

The words still ring in his ears: the avenue of your cowardice.

"I am *not* a coward!" he'd screamed in fury. "I am an explorer!"

His father smiled bitterly, shook his head, and walked away.

He just . . .  walked away.

Malcolm has not spoken to him since.

He'd spoken a letter home into the recorder, back when he thought the
entire ship had been destroyed and that he and Commander Tucker were
at death's door. He explained everything. He apologized for words said
in anger and forgave words said likewise. He set the record straight.

When the Enterprise rescued them, one of Malcolm's first conscious
acts had been to destroy his letters to Earth. He'd taken the
data-chips, shot them, and flushed their remains into open space.

He'd almost gone back. The Xindi attack on Earth had brought much of
the crew closer together with their families, binding them together
into solidarity against the terror of the unknown threat.

Malcolm had met Maddy for lunch in a tiny Marseilles restaurant while
trying to decide whether or not to arrange a meeting with his mother
and father.

"Father doesn't know what to think," Maddy had said. "I think he'd
find everything much easier if you found some way of dying for the
sake of humanity."

"Lovely," Malcolm said sourly.

"You're far too complicated alive. At least if you were martyred he
could mourn you properly."

"I'm working on it," Malcolm said. "Unfortunately I seem to be rather
attached to my life."

"I'm glad," Maddy said. "I shouldn't think you'd be as handsome as a
corpse."

"I hope not," Malcolm replied wryly.

And the conversation had turned to other things. Madeleine, bless her,
had teased him about the blonde waitress who'd served them their very
French food, and in a further attempt to make him blush, asked him
needling questions about that charming Starfleet girl who'd called
asking questions about his dining preferences.

"Will we be welcoming a new Mrs. Malcolm Reed to our table next
Christmas?"

His gaze slips back to where Hoshi sits at her post.

If only . . .

T'pol returns to the bridge. "Thank you, Lieutenant," she said.
"Ensign, adjust course heading to avoid the asteroid field as you
suggested."

Malcolm returns to his post and life on the Enterprise bridge
continues without noticeable incident.

He'd met Hoshi on the way back from their brief planet leave. Sharing
a shuttlepod with Trip meant that out of concern for his friend,
Malcolm hadn't spoken much to the other passengers.

"You're not staying on Earth?" he has asked her quietly. He never
really expected her to; he'd seen the hesitant child transform to the
competent woman and there was no doubt that Hoshi had her space legs.
But somehow he'd felt that she might appreciate the acknowledgment,
that someone had really noticed the change.

"Captain Archer is still going to need a translator, Expanse or no
Expanse," was Hoshi's reply.

"I'm glad," Malcolm said to her.

She looked at him, surprised. "Glad, Lieutenant?"

"I am . . .  proud to serve with you, Ensign." His voice was quiet,
his face earnest. He hopes that she knows how much he meant those
words.

She flashed him a smile: brief, appreciative. And then she'd turned
solicitous inquiry on their friend Commander Tucker; the conversation
was over.

Part of him wishes she knew that he appreciates her on a level beyond
the professional . . .  that his words mean more than just what they
say, that when he says he's proud to serve with her he really means
that he yearns to stand by her side as lover or husband or boyfriend
or companion or in any capacity that she would have him be . . .

But mostly he's glad she'll never know. Because he doesn't want to
lose those brief flashes of her smile, the ones that feel like they're
only for him. He doesn't want to lose the wry sense of humour, the
insightful wit, the determined bravery and warm compassion that she
brings to life. He doesn't want to lose her as his friend. He's had
precious few in his life, and he cherishes them deeply.

His duty is to the ship and her crew, not to his heart. Even if Hoshi
learned of the aching emptiness he feels because he loves her, what
could she do about it? Discipline. Loyalty. Honour. The watchwords of
the Reed code. How can he abandon those, just for the love of a woman,
even if the universe were to turn completely upside-down and she were
to feel even a shadow of what he does in return? Who would he be
without his love of duty, his need to for success, his passion for his
work?

He'd be a stranger. And if he abandons himself, he would certainly
never be worthy of Hoshi.

Her voice breaks him out of his thoughts as she turns in her chair.
"Subcommander," she says, "may I have your permission to leave the
Bridge? Crewman Nelson can take over from here but I've got to get a
sandwich or something."

It's her second consecutive shift. Malcolm knows, because he's on his
second, too.

"Of course, Ensign," is T'pol's calm reply. "Do not push yourself too
hard. It would be illogical to deny yourself physical necessities."

"And it's not like anything's happening here," Travis murmurs under
his breath. His complaint earns him a smile of commiseration from the
linguist and an arched eyebrow from the science officer, although
T'pol chooses to let the remark pass.

Intraship communication: "Hey Malcolm, are you busy?"

Malcolm tries to decipher Trip's tone. His voice sounds weary but not
entirely without a trace of his ordinarily cheerful disposition . . .
or is that only a result of Malcolm's imagination? It's difficult to
tell; he has such worries over Trip's welfare that he might be
grasping at straws, hunting for any sign of improvement. "What can I
do for you, Commander?"

"I'd like you to come down here and take a look at this torpedo array
for me . . .  I think it's on the blink."

Well, that's descriptive, thinks Malcolm, but out of respect for his
friend's current emotional state – however well the chief engineer
believes himself to be hiding it. "On the blink?"

"I want to make sure it's ready to go. Can you make some time?"

Trip is antsy and hungry for vengeance. He wants to make certain that
the weapons are configured for maximum destructive capability. He
never let his sister Elizabeth have any trouble from schoolyard
bullies . . .  and these Xindi are, to him, equivalent to the biggest
bullies on the playground.

"On my way, Commander," Malcolm replies, getting an acknowledging nod
from T'pol. "Hold the lift, will you, Ensign?"

Hoshi nods. "Sure."

---
Friends
---

The lift doors close on them. The silence feels heavy for a moment as
each waits for the other to speak.

"Malcolm?" Hoshi says.

He feels his heart thump in his chest at the sound of his own name,
and wishes, for a bare instant, that it would stop beating –
concerned, despite all scientific evidence suggesting its
impossibility, that her sharp linguist's ears might be able to hear
his heartbeat. Of course, then he would be dead, which would be
terribly inconvenient but much less embarrassing than this social
awkwardness to which he seemed doomed for all his days.

"Yes?" How articulate he is today, how dashing, debonair . . .  but
somehow he keeps the scathing sarcasm of his inner self from making
him look too uncomfortable. Or so he hopes.

"Do you think he's all right?" Hoshi squares her shoulders, her arms
folded over her chest. The action somehow makes her appear more
vulnerable.

"You mean Commander Tucker?"

Hoshi nods, without seeming to notice how idiotic the question sounds
as it hangs briefly in the air. Of course she means Commander Tucker.
It's awfully nice of her to pretend it's a reasonable question,
though.

"I don't know," Malcolm says. "He's . . .  not himself lately."
Understatement of the century.

"It's taken a lot out of him," Hoshi says softly. "I mean . . .  it's
hit all of us, really, one way or another. Even T'pol. I saw her when
she came back aboard from planet-leave and I thought she wanted to hit
something."

Malcolm gives her a rueful look. "He wants revenge. I . . .  can't say
I blame him."

"Will it help, though?" Hoshi shakes her head. "I just . . . "

"He was hit very hard," Malcolm admits. "But . . .  I don't know what
to do." He wishes he could better explain, that he does all that he
can think of but it'll never be enough, he's terrible with people. "I
tried to talk to him about it, but he threw it in my face . . .  I
don't think he's ready yet."

Why is he telling this to her? She must have her own worries, her own
problems . . .  he shouldn't burden her with his. But her expression
is sympathetic, with traces of something else that he can't quite
identify, as she nods.

"I wish there was something I – or any of us – can say," Hoshi says,
turning away from him to stare at the closed doors of the lift as it
heads for the armoury. "Trip's been like a big brother to me out here.
I hate what this is doing to him."

Malcolm gives her a sympathetic expression even as he suppresses deep
inner triumph at "like a big brother to me". The ship's gossips, wrong
yet again . . .  if it weren't beneath him to join in, he'd gloat
about it to Travis. Hoshi and Trip . . .  what a laughable idea! Why
has he ever given it any credence? How could he ever have lost any
sleep over such a silly concept?

And what kind of person is he, secretly rejoicing about Hoshi's
platonic emotion for his best friend when he ought to be worrying
about his friend's inability to mourn for his sister properly?

Selfish. Disloyal. And hardly honourable, either.

"I hope he'll be all right," Malcolm says. "I worry about him, too."

Why shouldn't Trip have her, since Malcolm is so obviously unworthy of
her affection?

Well, except for that she just told him that she thinks of Trip has
her big brother . . .

And the lift's doors open.

"Thanks, Malcolm," Hoshi says. "You're a good friend."

Ha. Such a good friend, rejoicing in Trip's ill fortune. Not that Trip
has shown any signs of being romantically interested in Hoshi either,
come to think of it, but it's still the principle of the thing.

"So are you," Malcolm replies as he leaves the lift and heads down the
corridor towards the armoury.

Time passes, as it is wont to do. As it turns out, Trip hasn't
improved at all; he wants Malcolm to make absolutely certain the
weapons are outfitted to their maximum destructive capacity. He wants
to make certain that Malcolm understands that he plans to go through
with this, that his thirst for revenge will not be sated until he's
destroyed the aliens that have done this to him, done this to his
sister, and their reasons be damned.

Malcolm is sympathetic, or at least, as sympathetic as he knows how to
be . . .  he does his duty, assures the chief engineer that everything
is ship-shape and Bristol fashion, and leaves the armoury. He notifies
the bridge that he will be taking a brief break from his duties in
order to refresh himself, and receives word from Captain Archer that
he's to take as long as he needs, so long as he's prepared to go back
on-shift should anything interesting happen.

Malcolm allows himself a small smile at the Captain's turn of phrase.
Should anything interesting happen. Right.

He heads for his quarters. He could use a shower, a nap, and some
food: refueling the body is important to the pursuit of duty, after
all.

There's a mail waiting light at the computer terminal in his quarters.
It's text only. He instructs the computer to open it, and glances at
the screen, wondering who would be sending him a text-only message in
the middle of the day.

The words flash green across the flat screen:

LIEUTENANT – IF YOU'RE OFF-SHIFT, WANT TO COME TO THE MESS-HALL AND
GET A SANDWICH OR SOMETHING? WE COULD PROBABLY BOTH USE THE COMPANY. –
H.S.

Malcolm, in the midst of stripping off his uniform, pauses and stares
at the screen, his heart thumping in his chest as he ponders what it
might mean that she's specifically requested his company. It probably
doesn't mean anything more than it sounds like it does. They're both
tired – the whole crew, really – and she probably thinks he needs to
blow off some steam.

Maybe she's trying to draw him out of his shell again. People always
seem to do want to do that, although for the most part, except when
ordered otherwise, Hoshi has been one to respect his need for privacy.
Or possibly she wants to continue their discussion regarding their
mutual concerns for the well-being of Commander Tucker. But whatever
it is, because it's from Hoshi, it's far more important than any nap
or shower could ever be.

He finishes getting dressed again and heads out of his quarters and
toward the mess-hall. That he loves her, there is no question . . .
and that she could never look on him as anything more than a friend
and colleague is also a certainty in his mind. And yet there are all
these moments – these insane, heart-stopping moments of impossibility
possibility, wonders always quenched or bottled or otherwise scolded
away. He lives in suspense between one moment of wild hope to the next
. . .  and he loves her all the more for giving them to him, these
shadows, these cruel, tantalizing glimpses of what it might be like
should the universe take leave of its senses and she were to love him
in return.

She is a rose among dandelions; not a delicate flower amidst the
tougher, more adaptable plants. Roses are beautiful, but they're
tough. Malcolm doesn't know much about gardening, but he has vague
memories of his mother insisting that the roses be pruned, or else
their robust health might choke out all other vegetation in her garden
. . .  and if there's one thing he knows for certain about roses, it's
that their slender, delicate stems have wicked thorns.

Hoshi has secret thorns, ones she herself doesn't even know about, and
they have pricked his heart. He bleeds from their touch, even as he
longs for it to continue. He knows that a relationship between them
must be impossible – to approach her as a suitor would be to
jeopardize far, far too much for it even to be a possibility within
the realm of consideration – but he can watch his thorned beauty from
afar, bask in her strength of will and her compassion, and let the
wild hopes rule over his dreams.

And he can certainly meet her in the mess-hall, for a sandwich or
something, when he's off-shift. Because friends and colleagues can do
that, and it doesn't have to mean anything at all.

---

The End